


And I Grew Mad

by This_is_not_for_you



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, short lil thing lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_not_for_you/pseuds/This_is_not_for_you
Summary: Based on the Finale . This contains spoilers.Mr. Cobblepot is having a rather shite time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> shit ahead. like if i say dark stuff, the fucc r u expecting. READ AND ENJOY THOUGH OK. I'm really appreciative of anyone who leaves reviews or anything lol thank you sm.  
> btw i may write dark things, but mainly because it's morbid curiosity, which is something almost everyone has to a degree, so i definitely don't condone violence or any of that shit at all, but by writing about things your giving precedence to a story through personal means. I see people saying that anything containing this or that is bad and the author must then support it, which is not the case at all from many perspectives. I don't get it, because by that reasoning "A clockwork orange" should be the worst of all time because it contains so much fucked up shit- but its not because its a work of fiction. Yes, stories can be offensive and horrible, but if the intention is to portray a story through which the basis is say violence of a sort, your not going to never mention violence, and if its meant to be completely fucked up in all respects, then thats the point of it. Thats the actual basis of it. I base my artwork off of abstract madness, mainly sleep, distortion of perspective on situations and personal things, so I think that unless you go to the lengths to try and offend people with any form of art, its quite difficult to, unless it was done in ignorance without knowledge of the subject, but even then many people don't know what you know, which is kinda difficult to remember sometimes i suppose. I ramble lol lemme live  
> I'm probably moving to england. Hope my N.I accent doesn't fade lol

Without another word, Edward Nigma, his favourite person in the entire world, his world, the complete embodiment of all hope and ambiguous love to him, fell backwards in a free fall and disappeared over the ledge, into the black abyss of sloshing currents and rocks below. He was screaming bloody murder, kicking and thrashing and unable to comprehend what had just happened. The moon light his face from above, lit up even the darkest of colours in the dead of night, the deep plum cravat and green suit had been visible moments, hours, maybe even minutes ago. But for some reason, that he couldn't and wouldn't be able to understand for as long as he lived in this shitty world, the moon didn't light up the purple and green anymore. It didn't light up anything in the 50Ft drop below, only the violent amalgamation of a complete void beneath him that his everything had fallen into.  
He slowly dropped to the ground, limp proving to not stop him in this instance, his Lanvin suit becoming crinkled and soaked through as the grass collected dew drops throughout the night, the wind whipping wildly at his hair, violently flapping against his face as he processed the situation through shock. The cold providing a physical way of numbing himself from the situation, he even fancied he might just stay there, staring at the moon through the tears and frost biting at him unforgivably, just wait and wait and soon enough he might follow Ed too.  
And so he waited. He waited more and more and silently cursed everything in existence. He could move, as he had found after he proceeded to repeatedly punch himself in the face, hit himself, cause any form of physical pain to himself with every ounce of any feeling he could muster at the current moment. Within something akin to a quaking heartbeat, his whole visual and physical desire's were gone into the ever screaming wind that surrounded him, no matter how much he cried, begged and pleaded to some unknown God of destruction and turmoil, no one dared answer him. Not even himself in fear of both literally and metaphorically tipping him over the edge. His knees were dragged up to his chest, suit impeccably dishevelled, covered in all assortments of muck and snot and tears from his non stop streaming nose, the crying being lost on himself, pitying and droning in its wail throughout the night and his breath didn't seem to come any easier as he caved further and further in on himself to the point that he was gasping for air after every scream.  
Never in all his miserable and disgusting life had he ever believed he would have such strong feelings, such remorse such cowardice, to cry for himself, to himself, just to pass the time when he let his mind flood with overwhelming grief, overwhelming enough to render him incapable of speech beyond illegitimate screams and choking of breaths.  
All that really came to his mind over and over again in a complete repetition of utter diabolical enthusiasm was "No one cares". 

So, what to do? 

 

You never would have thought that people had such feelings, feelings that one could never have imagined, whole lives destroyed because of getting too involved in someone else's life to the point that any would cause harm if they stepped out of the "happiness" that everyone was predisposition to. That was exactly what happened to him; every fucking time. His father was murdered, his mother was stabbed and his lover was gone.

His love, although possibly unrequited, he still had hope until a short time ago. A short time ago when he realised that the only thing that was allowing him to even continue on breathing let alone function, was hope. And what was the point of that now? In truth, Humans look for the negative in situations; entirely so to the point that in any situation complete narcissism can be justified as simply 'being prepared'. However, in this instance, he bitterly believed that he should have been prepared. That this was somehow inevitable in these circumstances, what he'd done was what he would sow, and he hadn't even done very much.  
Somehow, he felt like a parallel of the situation would be something akin to an Edgar Allan Poe story; he was the antagonist by which he was the one to cause uninterrupted destruction through believing his own fallacy, ridding himself of the vulture eye, closing up the wall and the beating of the old man's heart, all him.

He opened his eyes again, and suddenly the wind was gone, the intensity of the situation was gone in an instance, and above him he could vaguely see something that resembled uniformly moulded panels. A ceiling. His mind became focused, sharply trying to sit up from his position of lying down, when he stopped immediately as a pain hit him like one he hadn't felt in a long time. It rammed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs so he was gasping for air in a strained panic whilst futilely clutching at his torso. He rolled himself into a ball slowly, flopping down on the hospital bed- as he surmised this is where he was- and slowly tried to make himself breathe.  
After a while, he hadn't noticed so much, but the tears came flowing freely and hotly, his face burning as he retched and sobbed, growing louder and louder every moment.

Somehow, his nightmare from before would have been better than having Edward Nigma shoot him and push him into the water, as he watched him slowly disappear under the surface. He doesn't remember anything after that, or doesn't care, either one is fine because at the moment he's too busy screaming through the pain and sadness.  
Numbly, he believed that Edward would have loved him at some point.  
Maybe.


End file.
